For your $189--or in my case, the whoring out of v. personal moments--you get a thing that looks like an ear thermometer, plus a USB cable, extra tip, fancy case and instruction booklet translated from the German with references to the KLITORIS and somewhat frightening/mysterious exhortations like "Turn the device off whenever unusual sounds are heard and do not continue using it."*

To use (fuck? make love to/with?), you put a little suction cup-like thing directly on your clit and it sort of vibrates and does something that feels a lot like gentle sucking, like someone's mouth is on you. It's a totally different sensation, as far as vibes go--sweet and nice, but not too ethereal. There are like 6 settings of intensity but I could only handle the first two.

The first time the Womanizer had relations, we had some first date issues. During some of it, it was insanely good, then it would somehow suddenly be just "meh" and I could have gotten up and had lunch or something with little regret. Then back to insanely good again.

Instead of a straightforward Masters and Johnson graph from arousal to orgasm:

...it was more like one of those Family Circus cartoons where Billy takes the meandering, long-ass way somewhere...

La de dah.

I think it was self-consciousness due to using it in front of someone coupled with the thing's notable resemblance to a wee little clit-sized milking machine. Still, I kept with it out of sheer determination, which is not exactly an optimal sex attitude. It was pretty frustrating. But then, when it finally happened, I literally screamed. Like, out loud. In a good way, in case you were wondering. This is not something I generally do.

Second time I snuck in the bathroom and put some porn on my phone (is this making you hot? No? Sex stripped of its mystery, connection and passion is so... almost workaday, like I'm describing how I changed the oil in my car or something. Which for the record, I don't know how to do, so don't bother asking me to). The Womanizer caused no screaming this time, but it was quick and easy, which sometimes is all you're looking for.

Third time, it was good. Real good. I'm a little bit in love with it, if you must know. If that thing had a varsity jacket I would so be wearing it.

I loved this phrase because it sounds so girls-only 7th grade health class. Like, after an uncomfortable and uninformative talk about fallopian tubes and such, the girls would file past the gym teacher, averting their eyes as she hands them each a pamphlet with the words "The Little Penis Inside You" written in swirly tampon ad font. Said brochure would be quickly shoved to the bottom of one's backpack, only to be retrieved for furtive study once in the privacy of one's own room.

Since you probably haven't yet received your pamphlet, I feel compelled to show you this "Clitoral cross section" photo from Wikipedia because it looks exactly like a little penis. So much so that, to be quite honest, it sort of freaks me out. Behold:

Umm, should it be bending down like that?

(I especially like that that one part is unhelpfully labeled "skin." Like the labeler got tired of being so damn specific all the time and thought, "Fuck it. I'm just putting 'skin' and going home.")

"According to the sexual response cycle, during the excitement stage, the body (shaft) of the clitoris begins to fill with blood and increase in size," it reads. Whew! Is it hot in here?

I'm not yet sure how I am going to deal with this new information. I kind of don't like the idea that I have a little penis inside of me, although it does explain some past decisions I made. You know, thinking with my little penis and all that.

Also feeling slightly less ladylike than usual and hoping my boob-hugging shirt will negate the effects of this post. Look, boobs! I'm a girl!

If you're really into balls, this site probably won't do it for you because the balls are pretty blurry, and the scenery and the balls sort of cancel each other out, but I do appreciate that there are a bunch of dudes out there doing something so pointless and vaguely subversive. My only suggestion, and I can't believe I'm saying this: needs more balls.

--Educational balls!
Meanwhile, Senhor Testicle (aka Mr. Balls) is a scrotum-shaped mascot who travels to classrooms, and other places where there is no escape, to bring awareness to testicular cancer. It also brings awareness to the issue of what you're supposed to say to big ol' hairy Spokesballs, especially one wearing an especially sad toupee/merkin thing, eerily smiling at you and silently making the "hug me" gesture.

The day at the fair takes a sudden turn.

Public Masturbation!
If all this talk of balls becomes too sexually arousing for you, for fuck's sake, please be smart about it doing something about it. Don't be like the Louisiana woman who was caught "inappropriately pleasing with a package of Jimmy Dean sausages in a Walmart bathroom. Believe me, I so get being overcome by passion, but this is not good. Not only does the sign clearly state that merchandise should not be brought into the bathroom, but it's a waste of perfectly good(ish) food. Because, once you actually fuck the sausage, they can't put it back on the shelf, at least not without a real good rinse.

Meanwhile, in a marginally more upscale incident, a Kansas City woman was caught in a Target bathroom singing "Let It Go" and involved in some sort of highly emotional threesome with a carrot and an Olaf puppet.

I think the point here is that public restrooms are overwhelming sexy, so if you're going to a big box store, make sure you masturbate at home first. And please pay for all meat products before sticking them into your vagina.

(If you cruelly enjoy the charming foibles of the clearly mentally ill, as I seem to, I suggest you check out the Florida Woman Twitter account featuring important news like "Florida Woman strips naked in restaurant, sticks chair leg in ass, slathers herself in ketchup" or, to return to the previous theme, "Florida Woman won't let go of security guard's testicles, even while being tasered." If you imagine that it's all just one woman doing all of it, it makes if even better. And better still if while imagining that, you concurrently make love to a pack of Jimmy Dean sausages--but not the spicy hot ones, learned my lesson.)

Superhero Blogging!
IBWMW made Kinkly's 2015 list of 100 Sex Blogging Superheros. We're #13, which is good, since I try to strive for upper mediocrity in all I do. Not sure what this year's superpower is but I'm kinda hoping it's something like this, sent in by my friend Quentin who has spent his life "avoiding VaJayJay" and now will be even more vigilant in his efforts.

Not sure how I'm gonna use this power yet, but I'm thinking at the very least, it might get me a bit more space at the communal tables at Starbucks.

Or maybe I'll smite somebody. I have just the person in mind right now. Hope it's not you...

xoxoxo
jill

p.s. for you Esperanto readers, here is a complete translation of today's missive:

About Me

I write In Bed With Married Women, a blog about sex in all its boring, strange, funny, smokin' hot glory. My work has also appeared in Salon, AlterNet, Cosmopolitan, Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, Jezebel, Mad, Games and the Los Angeles Times. I look grumpy in all pictures whether grumpy or just kinda neutral.